Lost Causes
by Bespectacled
Summary: He would have no peace until he heard that she was well... The aftermath of the count, from Branson's side.


"From the way you're pacing, anyone would think you were an expecting father."

Branson looked at Mrs Hughes, but didn't stop.

"If that'd happened then you'd definitely be fired." Thomas commented tartly.

Branson glared at him, squaring up to the dark-haired man. "Come again?"

Bates held up a hand to the younger man. "It isn't worth it, Tom."

Branson bristled, stopping his pacing, choosing to lean on a chair instead – concern winning over anger.

Thomas smirked, apparently amused by the rise, but leaving the room – there was something in Branson's eyes that he didn't trust, and a footman with a black eye never looked good. Thomas was more than intelligent enough to know when he was in danger of pushing things too far.

Branson wasn't a rival, anyway – and, frankly, he didn't look like he needed anybody's help in getting fired.

"Tom." Bates said gently.

Branson glanced down – his grip on the chair was a little too tight, his knuckles were paling.

"You should go to bed, his Lordship will deal with you in the morning." It should've felt like Mrs Hughes was telling him off, but in truth it felt more gentle, motherly – as if him sleeping would make things better.

Branson shook his head. "I'll have to take Mr Crawley back anyway. And I won't be able to relax; not until I hear that she's alright." He looked at Bates, visibly drooping under the older man's gaze. "I wouldn't sleep, Mr Bates, it won't make a difference."

Mrs Hughes very deliberately excused herself, feeling distinctly uncomfortable about this conversational turn, knowing that it wasn't something she should hear, not if she wanted to continue working alongside Branson in good conscience. She liked the lad – he may have some ideas she wasn't entirely certain of, but on the whole he was a good addition to the staff. There was something in him, maybe his wide-eyed idealism, that brought out her maternal side.

She couldn't bring herself to hear – actually, she didn't want to think about it. She had a horrible feeling that nipping ...whatever it was... in the bud wasn't an option.

Bates looked at Branson, taking stock of him – the young man was usually full of life, ideas, vigour. He usually had a smile for everyone, and a quick, clever answer for anyone who spoke sharply to him.

The man sat opposite him, though...

He was pale, anxious, looked as if he was losing himself in his thoughts and his fears.

"Are you worried about her, or your job?" Bates asked gently.

From anyone else it would've been an accusation.

"Her." Branson replied quietly, looking at the table, as if the wooden surface could inform him, or absolve him. "I would never have taken her, if I'd known. Never. It's my fault. If anything – " His voice shook, and he dragged his eyes to meet Bates's gaze. "If anything happens to her, I don't know what I'll do."

"Do you – " Bates looked at the younger man, both knowing that he wouldn't be finishing that sentence.

"I don't know." Branson replied honestly, although his tone informed Bates that he'd been thinking about it, and that it was a distinct possibility.

For one brief, beautiful shining moment, Bates realised that there was someone here with even less hope for a happy romantic future than himself.

The moment passed as Branson stood again, and resumed his pacing.

"How, exactly, are you expecting to find out whether she's alright or not?"

"Anna." Branson replied simply. "She'll be going to assist her, and then she'll come back here, and she'll tell us that Lady Sibyl is fine, and ...and everything will be alright."

And the world can start turning again, and Branson's heart could start beating again...

Almost on cue, Anna appeared in the doorway, apparently coming to get something for the young mistress. Branson looked up at her desperately.

"Is she alright? Tell me she's alright, please, God, tell me she's alright."

Anna nodded. "She's alright – more angry than hurt. She's already argued with her father."

Branson flushed slightly. "I, ah, heard that one. But she's alright? She's definitely alright?"

Anna nodded, passing him a slip of paper. "She said to give you this."

He opened it, before letting out a desperate laugh – a response of relief, not amusement. "She...doesn't blame me." He sat down, looking as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders. "And she's going to be alright."

He sat, clinging to the letter, tiny tears of relief in the corners of his eyes. "She's going to be alright."

* * *

Matthew didn't need Branson's help to get into the car, but he offered it anyway.

As they drove, Matthew appeared to be half a world away – Branson would later discover why, exactly, this was.

"I wanted to thank you. For earlier today, with Lady Sibyl." Branson said after a while, looking at Matthew in the mirror.

"I should be thanking you, really, without you we would never have got out of there." Matthew smiled thoughtfully. "We made rather a good team."

Branson smiled back, almost despite himself. "I never would've taken her, if I'd known – "

"You did what she asked you to." Matthew interrupted mildly, apparently eager to stop the man's train of thought. "If you'd refused you'd still be in trouble."

Branson smiled wryly. "I forget that you come from a different background to them."

Matthew laughed. "I don't, believe me." He paused for a while, apparently mulling over his thoughts, before looking up to Branson again. "You care for her, don't you?"

Branson swallowed, hard.

"Ah, yes, I suppose you can't really answer that one. Rest assured, I won't be telling anyone." Matthew grinned, apparently in a very good mood (unsurprising, in retrospect)

"To be honest, sir, I saw the way she looked at you." Branson said quietly.

Matthew arched an eyebrow. "Really, Branson, I wouldn't take any notice of that. She had just sustained a head injury."

Branson looked at his expression in the mirror, before allowing himself to chuckle. "I couldn't possibly comment, sir."

* * *

The knocking at his door was insistent, near-frantic.

This, surely, would be Carson fetching him, to discuss with him the events of last night, before he was brought up before his Lordship.

He rubbed his eyes, buttoning his shirt quickly, shrugging his waistcoat over his shoulders. "I'll be with you soon, Mr Carson."

"It's Sibyl."

His heart raced as he verified that his shirt was buttoned up. He opened the door to her, feeling all too-aware that he still wasn't properly dressed without tie and fully buttoned waistcoat.

"M'lady – "

"Branson, I just wanted to make sure that you knew that...I don't hold you responsible, not for a moment, and I've ensured that father won't be firing you. I don't think I can save you from a tongue-lashing, though so – " She frowned slightly. "Are you alright?"

"Just- just relieved that you're alright, m'lady." He smiled broadly at her, wanting to reach out to her, hold her.

"I suppose I should learn to listen to you in future." She smiled mischievously. "I really must go, Branson, before I'm missed for too long." She tipped her head, looking at him thoughtfully. "Are you alright? Everyone has been fussing over me without any thought for you, and –"

"I'm alright, m'lady, mostly because you are." He ducked back into the house, picking up his tie and looping it around his neck as they spoke. "I don't know what I would've done had Mr Crawley not been there."

She smiled. "I think Mary's glad of that, too. He's going to get all of the praise for this, and I want you to know that I know it was both of you, not just him. Possibly even more you than him. Everyone else might not acknowledge it, but I know – " She sighed. "Do you usually do that tie in front of a mirror?"

He glanced down to see the mess he'd made of it, before smiling apologetically. "Ah. Yes."

She shook her head, delicately taking the tie and knotting it for him. "Papa used to let me tie his, sometimes, before he went out of an evening with Mama. I think he got his valet to fix it before leaving."

He watched her quick fingers work – he'd have to fix it, too. But he'd wait until she'd left for that.

She didn't need him to tell her this was vastly inappropriate.

In retrospect, he probably should have tried, at least.

She smoothed his waistcoat absently, smiling at him, clear affection in her eyes. "I really must go."

He nodded. "Thank you. For thinking of me."

She smiled shyly. "I often think of you – "

"M'lady." Anna stood behind her, speaking gently. "You're wanted."

Sibyl glanced back, and Branson couldn't help but feel that Anna had become her guardian angel of sorts. "I'll see you later, Branson."

Anna met his eyes – she didn't need to speak, didn't need to change her expression. It was a promise, that she wouldn't be telling anybody, but that didn't mean she approved.

There was something in those eyes that told him that she understood, that she knew what it was to love with little hope for the future. Sympathy, understanding – with an edge.

He nodded briefly, watching Sybil walk away, blissfully chatting to Anna.

* * *

"It isn't your politics that concern me most – although they do."

Lord Grantham was a good man, and a good employer, which made Branson feel even worse about being stood here before him. His face was like thunder, although his tone was measured, thoughtful.

Rage, but controlled, metered out, considered.

"I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to going to London for the season. Sybil needs to be around people of a less political persuasion." Lord Grantham met his eyes and Branson heard the unspoken words; _she needs to be away from you_.

Branson's eyes found the floor, although his pride told him to open his mouth and fight back, use the rhetoric he read.

He was too intelligent to let his pride control his mouth, as much as he wanted to.

"To tell you the truth, Branson, it really isn't the politics that worry me, it's Sibyl's attachment to you. You've worked as a chauffeur before, you must know that young women can form attachments. She's young, Branson. I expect better of you."

Lord Grantham looked oddly vulnerable like that, and in that moment Branson simply saw him as Sibyl's father. He was worried about his daughter's inclinations, both political and romantic, and in that moment Branson couldn't say he blamed the man.

In that moment, the few years seniority he had over Sibyl felt like a lifetime.

Lord Grantham waited for him to speak.

"If I'd known that was her plan, I never would've taken her there." He met his Lordship's eyes. "I have the greatest respect for the young mistress, m'Lord." He paused, trying to think of the best way to phrase this. "I – I have only ever treated her with the greatest respect."

Lord Grantham studied him, apparently assessing the truth of this, seeming to be almost disappointed when he realised that Sybil's affections were mirrored. He sighed, deeply, making a mental note to talk to Carson.

"I would prefer it, Branson, if your dealings with Sybil were reduced to only strictly necessary journeys, or if you had someone else with you."

Branson nodded. "As you wish, your Lordship." He turned to leave, presuming he was dismissed.

"I don't want to fire you, Branson. But I also don't want – " He paused, stopping himself, and Branson wondered if he was worried about giving the younger man ideas. "I don't want there to be trouble. This family has seen enough trouble in recent times."

Branson nodded again. "Of course, your Lordship." He paused before leaving, certain that he had been dismissed this time. "I hope the season goes well."

Lord Grantham graced him with a smile, almost recognition that Branson was acknowledging the difference in their stations. "As do I, Branson."

* * *

"Mr Branson."

He glanced up. "Please, Anna, Tom." He paused, hazarding a guess at why she had sought him out. "Thank you, for everything you've done. With...her ladyship."

"You know what I'm going to tell you, Tom." She said gently. "I know what it's like to love without hope, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

Branson arched his eyebrows. "I don't think you're without hope, Anna. Far from it. Anyone can see that – "

"It doesn't matter if the love is returned if nothing can come of it." Anna spoke slowly, methodically – clearly this was something she had gone over and over in her head. "Some would argue that was worse."

"Would you?" He met her eyes.

She looked away.

"I'm not going to be a chauffeur forever."

They were words he'd said to Sybil, words he had repeated to himself whenever she smiled at him, words he had held dear when times felt bleak.

"But she will always be a lady."

He knew that Anna was trying to help, trying to save him from himself, from heartbreak. It was kindness, really, but it didn't stop him from feeling angry with her for telling him what he already knew, what he already feared.

Her heart was in the right place, even if she thought that his wasn't.

"I appreciate your efforts, Anna, but...it's too late. I think it was too late the moment I set eyes on her."

Anna placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, apparently beyond words now. He could see in her eyes that she thought he was a lost cause.

Maybe he was.

But when he saw her, he knew that they were lost together, somehow, and it all felt worthwhile.


End file.
